


The Young Prince

by skatingonthinice



Category: Tintenwelt-Trilogie | Inkheart Trilogy - Cornelia Funke
Genre: Adventure, Coming of Age, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Nonbinary Character, Post-Canon, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25485556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingonthinice/pseuds/skatingonthinice
Summary: Jacopo is soon coming of ruling age, but he has yet to see any of the world. Before he can ascend the throne he must get some experience dealing with the common people and learn to become a better version of himself. Along for the ride is his childhood friend Jehan and his foster sibling  Giorgia.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	1. The Thief

**Author's Note:**

> Just putting it out there that I did write this before the new book by Cornelia came out, so it will most certainly not be faithful to canon and I am sorry for that. 
> 
> The structure of this story is split in three parts, but I have made each part more or less self- contained, so you may read however much or little you want:)

«You are exceptionally bad at this,» Jehan would say while Jacopo tried to do anything on his own. Giorgia would usually shrug and say, with the most factual face Jacopbo had ever seen someone pull off, that he wasn't all _that_ bad, just not very good. His travelling companions were not the most supportive, but when it boiled down to it he guessed he appreciated them anyway.

After all, he didn't have any other friends.

One moon turn had passed since they had left the safety of Lombrica and since then they had seen giants, magical creatures none of them had ever heard about, and people of every sort.

Today though seemed dreary. Jacopo sat atop his brown stallion and viewed their surroundings with disapproval.

Up ahead were fields of green pastures filled with wildflowers and miniature trees no higher than a man's knee. There were also mountains forming what Jacopo's tutor had once told him was the biggest mountain range in the known world. The mountains made the land hard to live on because it yielded few crops, so it was mostly barren of men. In the winter locals and travellers should take care to not be trapped in or without the passes between the mountain feet.

Jacopo looked at the distant walls of stone and hoped they were back long before then.

Further ahead Jehan gestured to the scenery and told Giorgia tales he made up on the spot about moon fairies and magical plants, and Giorgia listened with intensity, as they were wont to do whenever Jehan spoke.

Jacopo wondered how they could be bothered to speak so much when they also had to walk. He mostly rode and even so he felt tired.

Just then his friends began to point excitedly to something ahead. It was a church tower. Soon the figure of the monastery itself appeared. Jacopo had never seen brickwork that bright. For a moment he wondered what had been used to make the structure, till he heard distant screams and realised the monastery was engulfed in flames.

His heart dropped.

«Fire!» Jehan yelled. Both him and Giorgia ran towards the burning building. Jacopo saw Jehan running inside and Giorgia helping someone out from the wide open entrance, but he himself felt paralysed by fear. The closer he got the more intensely he could feel the heat on his skin and finally he beckoned for his horse to stop.

He was near enough to see the faces of the people standing outside by the entrance and counted a little more than a dozen. Jehan came out supporting another one with his arms.

Just then a dark shadow jumped out from a window on the ground floor. In their arms was something large and square.

«Stop the thief!» someone shouted, clearly not seeing the bloody knife the thief flashed as he flew by. Jacopo dare not move an inch. He looked on as the thief set for the mountains, too far ahead for any of the bystanders to reach him now.

«You should have caught him. He stole our sacred text!»

Jacopo turned his head and saw the man Jehan was supporting gesturing in the direction where the thief had went. The man might be around twenty name days or so, tall, with a broad and pale face, and a shaved head. Jehan tried to stop him from moving because every time he did a red rose flowered on his shirt.

«The text! It's important to us,» he cried.

Jacopo felt his face turn red in shame. They stood there like wingless wirds, blackened from the smoke, all hairless, all dressed in the same woolen shirts and cotton trousers. Only their eyes shone clear and Jacopo saw blame in them. He felt them condemn him, silently and without words. It made him think of his late father- he would never have succumbed to fear. Was Jacopo to be more cowardly than Cosimo The Fair? Was he to be called Jacopo the Craven? He decided he couldn't let that happen, even though fear was still clutching at his heart and making it yearn for escape.

«I will fix this,» he said. «I- I will be back with your text. I won't fail you.» Then he rode off after the thief with the stunned faces of Jehan and the other etched into his mind.

The sun cast long shadows over the fields, yet not comparable at all to the looming shadows cast by the approaching mountains. They were close now; Jacopo had been riding for what felt like hours. He thanked the heavens that he had spent some time hunting with Jehan the last year or he would never had known how to search his surroundings for imprints.

He finally caught up with the bandit by a large stream. The thief must have searched for a way to cross and after trying to cross found it was too deep, and so collapsed by the side of the stream, drenched from the waist down. In his arms was the book, still dry.

Jacopo got down from his horse as quietly as he could and approached the man, although to his dismay the man's eyelids opened at the sound and looked at him.

«So- you found me. What are you going to do?» he said.

Jacopo pointed at the book he was clutching. «I just came for that.»

The man laughed. His chest rose rapidly as one does after a long struggle.

«Why? Better it get taken out of their hands. Do you even know who you are assisting? I bet you don't. They are called Channels, which is a finer title than they deserve. They are vile, unnatural beings with enough powers in their throats to throw all order to ruin. If the Old King was not so gutless he would order their treacherous tongues cut out. They use this-» he tapped the book with his fingers «-to train' new mediums. If they lose this they will lose their grip in the kingdom. Thousands of lives may be saved.»

The man finished with a sober look in his eyes, evidently fully believing this was true. Jacopo however couldn't remember the last time he felt so unsure.

«Did you set fire to the monastery?» he decided to ask. The man laughed.

«Did you stab one of the- what did you call them- Channels?» He got another laugh in return.

So he was dealing with the words of a brute and a circle of dangerous warlocks, if a thief could be believed.

Usually he would have taken the side of the group just on the account of the arsonary and violence, were if it not for the fact that the tale the man told was reminding him of a similiar story Jehan had told him once about The Bluejay, his daughter, and Dustfinger. If Jehan's words were true immense power could be derived from words and letters, enough to conjure things out of thin air, inflict pain or love, and control death. Jacopo did not like being reminded of is grandfather, and the eerie knowlegde of what the Bluejay had done to him had never left him. He knew what books could do. Still he liked pretending it never happened. If words alone could murder a wealthy ruler made immortal, was anyone ever really safe?

«What exactly is it they do?» he asked carefully. And so the thief told him of words- beautiful, vibrant words written on parchment or paper that- when read aloud could change the outcome of wars and decide the fate of both common man and mighty ruler alike. The more he told, the more faster Jacopo felt his heart beat.

His first thought was getting away from these Channels as soon as possible, nevertheless there was something stopping him.

Running away wouldn't be prince- like. Neither was taking sides without having given the other part a chance to explain themselves. He made up his mind.

«I will take the book now. Before I give it back I will examine your claims,» he said. Before the man could protest, Jacopo yanked the book from his grip and rode back to the monastery. The scene there was now more peaceful. The fire had been either extinguished or gone out on its own, and the Channels were sitting on the ground watching Jehan help the man who had been stabbed.

«Leon, please sitt still,» Jehan implored, patting a wet cloth over his wound. It made Jacopo happy to see it wasn't as bad as it could have been and instead more of a light gash.

Leon's eyes met with Jacopo's as he approached.

«You brought it.» He sounded surprised. Jacopo would have snapped at the insinuation if it hadn't been for the severity of the situation.

«Yes, I did, thank you very much. Before I give it to you I would like an explanation, though.»

He told he congregation what the thief had said. They exhanged looks, uncertainty written upon their faces. Jehan and Giorgia too frowned, but only Leon spoke. 

"By no means do I know for sure, but I can guess that the thief acted on behalf of the Old Prince and his distaste for us. Am I correct?"

When Jacopo said nothing Leon had gotten his answer. He spat on the ground and the drops were black from the smoke he had inhaled. "Our ruler does not care for us. For years his court has been whispering hearsay about our kind, what we are supposedly capable of.

Many years back his spies brought back reports from the country south of us. Undoubtedly you have heard tattle of a certain person that forced a bookbinder to trap death for him. Of course that must be lies, because none of us has ever beheld a skill like that. We pray together for rain and so it might rain, we read out loud for the crops in the kingdom to prosper and so they might. Our practice does not allow violence. We don't use it to summon spirits or fabricate gold. To be frank I would not think us capable. In truth our voices are small channels of magic that together may raise like a choire and perform great things. For that we need the text book. There is your explanation."

Jehan opened his mouth as to inject, but Jacopo cut him short.

"Why should I believe you? It sounds to me like you are just downplaying your capability. Why should the monastery be allowed to hold this authority?"

"Jacopo!" Giorgia hissed, not agreeing with his critisicm. 

Leon smiled at Jacopo. The smile did not reach his eyes, which were sad. 

"Why should the Old Prince?"

Jacopo shifted uncomfortably. He looked at the people around him, suddenly feeling very, very stupid. "What... do you mean?" 

Giorgia did not give the man an opportunity to explain his statement, just blurted out the following with a voice that insinuated this was an idea they all were well familiar with: 

"He means to say that the Old Prince has no more right to authority than anyone else. No ruler does."

Giorgia looked at Leon who nodded and Jehan who seemed to struggle with the though yet still feeling the validity of the argument. Jacopo on the other hand felt like the sky suddenly had turned green. 

"No- no right? How come? How can that be?"

Jehan was starting to look at him with a sympathy usually reserved for Dante when he failed to grasp the concept of consequenses for childish shenanigans and Jacopo did not enjoy it. 

"Why should rulers have authority? Why should anyone have control enough to issue death warrants to people they simply don't like? Like us," Leon pressed on. At this point Jacopo was starting to realise something he rather wouldn't.

"Stop that. Somebody has to decide. Somebody who was born for it," he said.

"Why? Why does a single man decide which ideas and philosophies are acceptable? Did we deserve almost getting murdered?"

"Of course not!" Jacopo's shriek pierced the air. Oddly enough it made Leon beam. 

"Now you get it," was all he said.


	2. Distortions

The sky was dark and storming, and the lack of afternoon light combined with ice cold rain had driven them astray. It had been hours since they had lost track of the cart track and now they were just drifting about, looking for anything that could offer some shelter. Jacopo could see nothing but the back of his companions before him and the wet ground beneath them. The only thing keeping him up was the hope of getting out from the ran that kept hitting his skin like tiny needles. 

Behind him his stallion trotted along.

Suddenly a lightning flashed and illuminated a pale face in the dark.

Jacopo shrieked and fell backwards, his hands dug into soggy grass. Before he even registered that they had moved Giorgia was there in front of him clutching at a dagger they usually had hidden gods knows where.

Another lightning flashed and it was apparant that the face belonged to an old hag.

She was the most wrinkly woman Jacopo had ever seen. Some strands of thick, black hair framed her face, the rest was tied in a knot at the back of her head. She grinned at them and Jacopo instinctively knew she was not a human.

«Giorgia, put the dagger back. It's just an old lady,» Jehan reprimanded yet Giorgia did not move an inch. Their persistence made the old hag smile. Jacopo noted that she lacked several teeth. She began to speak with a hoarse voice.

«I have stood at this post for ages, guarding the land beyond from trespassers. I have adviced old men, young men, women, those that are neither, and creatures with magic in their veins. I will tell you the same I told them:

Your company has reached the point of no return and from here on you will face the distortions within no matter which path you take. This is the price for passing through. Either you face yourself or you stay forever. These are your choices.»

Jacopo was about to tell her a thing or two when he realised she had disappeared into the rain, or perhaps she was still there- just invisible. He shuddered involuntarily and when he looked at the others they looked puzzled. Even so, the rain continued and they had no choice but to press on. Shortly after, they reached it.

It was a pond. The water seemed to be pitch black, its surface ruffled by the cold wind sweeping over the ground. When he looked at it, Jacopo felt a deep sorrow, as if he knew that beneath the waves were uncountable spirits trapped forever in the icy water, unable to ever see the sun. It was obvious by the concerning look he shared with Jehan and Giorgia that they felt the same way. Still there were some large boulders by the pond which could offer some shelter and by now they all were too exhausted to go on without a break.

They huddled together and waited for the rain to stop. The evening went by, grey and eerie. Sometimes Jacopo thought he could see shapes in the water beside them, but soon after it was gone. He lay his head onto Jehan's shoulders. The familiar scent of his friend filled him with comfort. Not long after he fell asleep.

He was awoken by a faint crying. There was a bright light that annoyed his eyes. When he got accustomed to it, he was amazed to see that it was the pond glowing and bringing light to the night, and in front of it Giorgia was standing.

Jacopo knew something was wrong. Giorgia was speaking, but their voice that normally was so collected and calm was shaking like a newborn calf.

«I am not- no, I wouldn't-» they denied yet not sounding too sure of themselves. 

Then a voice responded and Jacopo realised there was another person there. A dark haired man was standing in the middle of the pond, submerged to his thighs. His face and demeanor was oddly familiar. When he spoke it was with a smirk and his tone was condescending and harsh.

«That was what we used to say too- when Capricorn took us in to raise, but you will be surprised how easy it gets with practice. With time people just become flesh that can speak. You swing that blade around an awful lot for someone that thinks humans are anything but bloodbaths waiting to happen-»

«I am just trying to- to protect-» stuttered Giorgia, looking the most defenseless Jacopo had ever seen them since they met, all those years ago.

«-And with my blade too! What an attitude. You know, you look nothing like your mother. You took it all from me, the tenacity as well- you can't keep on denying it,» the man said.

Giorgia wept. The sound was unsettling. Jacopo had heard his mother weep. He had also heard Brianna weep when she grieved his father. He had even seen Jehan weep when they were playing around the castle and Jehan had sprained his ancle after a misstep in the staircase. 

Somehow he felt this was different. It was an uncomfortable icky thing when normal people showed feelings like this, but it was a terrible thing when someone like Giorgia broke. It reminded him of his childhood right before the Adderhead had died. It filled him with rage.

Jacopo felt himself get up and move forward, not even taking into account that the man possibly could harm him. He only thought of Giorgia, and so he leaped in from of them and into the pond with a velocity that sent the water splashing about.

«How dare you speak to them that way?! Do you know who you are talking to?» he shouted. The old patronising tone in his voice was back, but this time he would use it to protect others. Whoever this was he most certainly planned to set them in their right place.

Then he got confused, because the person in the pond flickered, as candlelight someone had blown at. The face of the dark haired man melted and instead transformed into someone taller and fairer, a man Jacopo hadn't seen in years. His heart tightened.

«Father?»

Cosimo gave him a smile that seemed more like a frown than a display of joy. It surprised Jacopo to see how young the former prince was, and how much Jacopo had grown himself. It was with sadness Jacopo realised just how young his father must have been when he died.

"Who are these children? Does my _wife_ really trust escorts this young?"

At the mention of his mother Jacopo felt a sting in his chest.

«You won't talk about her in that manner!» he said.

Cosimo's pretty mouth twitched. Once again he flickered and for a second there were two versions of him till they both combined into a single body again.

«Do you trust the weak minds of women? You will be a weak ruler, son. Your naivety will make Lombrica a wasteland. Everything I helped build, you will undo. Better the Adderhead was alive...»

He flickered and the second version of him twisted in agony. Its mouth was wide open in a scream, but no sound came out.

«Don't believe that thing!»

Jacopo turned his head and saw that the commotion had awakened Jehan who was standing beside Giorgia, comforting them. 

_That thing?_

Jacopo turned back to his father. _That thing is my father._ But at the same time he didn't feel fully sure. Either way- resistance was growing within him. He had never liked his father. Cosimo had never spent time with him. Cosimo had always looked upon him with disdain.

It was Violante that had cared for him. She had, Brianna, the court and his friends. It had only required him to sacrifice his grandfather to the Bluejay for their love. Or had they always... Jacopo did not dare to finish the thought, too afraid of the answer.

Yet he was pretty sure Cosimo had never loved him. He didn't owe that man his loyalty and the more he looked at the prince, the more certain he was of something.

«You are not my father. You are nothing but a specter,» he declared. By habit he straightened himself and managed to look down on the person half submerged in the pool even though he was a fair share taller than him.

Cosimo's beautiful face warped. «You are weak. If you reject me, who do you have then? That _lady_? Nobody likes Her Ugliness. The peasants? The peasants do not favour you either. You are alone, young man.»

«Don't listen to that!» Jehan shouted. «We love you! I- I- love you.»

He blinked like he couldn't believe he had said. Jacopo stared at him and the longer he stared, the odder he felt, because Jehan did not take it back make or laugh it off.

A warmth unlike anything Jacopo had ever felt spread within him, filling him with joy of a kind he never had thought himself capable of. He decided it wasn't important that he might be Jacopo: the vile, Jacopo the disliked.

He even forgot that he disliked himself. Who would have known a couple of words could be capable of doing that? At once, everything seemed possible and bright.

He looked at the thing imitating his father.

"I have friends that say otherwise."


	3. Ghosts

They reached the gates of Ombra fourteen moon turns after having left. Ever since they had crossed back into the kingdom, Jacopo had felt an odd surge in his stomach. It grew stronger for every step and by the time he began to recognise his surroundings, it felt like his entire body was in a delightful fit. Even though they hadn't eaten in a day and even though he was cold and wet, he walked faster and faster, till even Jehan had trouble keeping up. He had shot him a weird glance then, then in a flash he understood, and they both smiled. As kids neither of them had really given much thought to the love they felt for their home. Things were different now, though. Glancing up at the tall stone wall circulating the city, Jacopo felt nothing like the boy that had walked out the gate, a little over a year ago. 

"Who goes there?!" yelled a voice overhead, piercing the otherwise quiet night. The company lay their heads back and glanced up at a guard standing atop the wall, illuminated only by a small torch blowing in the autumn breeze. "Nobody is allowed to enter after nightfall. Every citizen knows this. So who are you?"

The words got stuck in Jacopo's throat before he could reply. Of course, he knew who he was, yet it had dawned on him that nobody would vouch for him in his current state. He didn't even have his horse. 

Before one of the others could muster a reply, Jacopo gently shook his head at them and signaled for them to be quiet. They gave him a look, particularly Jehan, who had a tired look about him and surely had longed for a bed to sleep in. Nevertheless they followed the order.

"Nobody," Jacopo shouted back to the guard. He went back to the dirt road they had come from. Giorgia followed quickly, although puzzled beyond doubt. Jehan, however, was less subtle of his doubt.

"What the hell is happening now?" he hissed into Jacopo's ear. Truth be told Jacopo found it amusing leaving them confused, still, he had matured since they had left for the journey and in the same way he didn't take to shouting at a random guard for not instantly knowing him, he now wouldn't keep anything from his friends. 

He smiled as he walked, suddenly taking a sharp turn into the woods. "Didn't you once tell me the camp is around these parts?" he said casually, like it was a normal place for a prince to visit. In truth he had never seen it, like he hadn't seen much at all in his life before this coming-of-age-trip. He had been like his mother, a caged bird in a castle. And like her he secretely, or less secretly liked the Mothely Folk. Besides- how could he ever be a just ruler if he wasn't in touch with all his subjects?

The current camp was small and cramped, yet it filled Jacopo and Giorgia with wonder. Multicoloured tents with even more colourful patches littered the clearing. In daytime it was easy to imagine people everywhere, every one about their business, cooking, crafting, sitting together and talking, playing with the kids, but at that hour only a few were still awake. They were sitting by a fire, talking. As soon as they saw the group of three enter the clearing they got up. It wasn't necessary to look to know they carried weapons. The times might be kinder, and still the Motley Folk hadn't forgotten the violence they had endured. As such they remained suspicious and asked the same question the guard had asked. 

This time Jacopo told the truth. One of the men started laughing. As he approached his face and stature became more discernable. He was a very handsome man, with black skin and black hair that fell to his shoulders in dreadlocks. His face was worn, somehow reminding Jacopo of an old and tired king. He had a good chuckle while he inspected Jacopo's torn cloak, his mud- soiled boots and his thoroughly tattered tunic and badly patched trousers (Giorgia, it had turned out, used the term "know how to sew" liberally). He looked at the other two and evidently found them in no better state.

His laugh became louder and he shook his head at his company beside him. 

"I don't know which would be funnier- that you are some prankster that is stupid enough to claim he's some prince while walking in his ruined boots in the middle of the woods, or that you are the long awaited prince back from his long and majestic journey. You don't even have a horse."

Jacopo felt his ears and forehead turn red. By instinct he wanted to defend himself, but the result was rather pathetic.

"None of us can sew, so... And our horse was stolen."

"Like your sword," Jehan added quietly. 

"Like my sword, yes," Jacopo admitted, feeling like the most un- regal he had in his entire life. 

"That is the Black Prince. He doesn't want to hear about our stolen horse," Giorgia interjected. The Black Prince let his eyes rest on Giorgia for a minute. He squinted. 

"You seem awfully familiar. And not in a good way."

Jehan lay a protecting arm over Giorgia's small shoulders. The men behind The Black Prince stepped nearer. After a very quick assessment did Jacopo decide it was in their best interest to spill the beans. He cleared his throat and spoke in the best autocratic voice he could muster, being careful not to let any weakness or fear show. His mother had shown him weakness would always be exploited. 

"You speak of the dead. Here are only protectors of the prince."

"Basta is dead," Jehan agreed. "You ought to remember that well. Dustfinger would have told you, long ago. I am Jehan, Roxane's son."

The men lowered their guard. The Black Prince raised an eyebrow. "Well, I will be damned. Of course he's dead. Still, there is a likeness in your friend that would have spooked even the hardiest of men. But if you are Jehan I will take you at your word. As well as yours, _prince_."

He offered them his own tent to sleep in for the night, and they gracefully accepted. Jehan fell asleep as soon as he lay down, but Giorgia lay unbelievably still. In a moment of abnormal tenderness Jacopo let his hand into their's and stroked it. Giorgia whispered. 

"There are so many ghosts."

Jacopo shook his head softly. "Not us. And not you."

After that they went silent. The only sounds were the crackling from the fire, the voices from the men outside and Jehan's snoring. 

They ate breakfast in the camp shortly after the sun had risen. Nobody paid them any attention, except The Black Prince, who seemed very interested in Jacopo. Jehan suggested that he wanted to know what kind of ruler Jacopo would be. When the time came for them to leave he bid them all farewell with a smug smile.

"Till the next time we meet, O' Jacopo the Mighty. Should you ever want to visit us send a messenger beforehand, and I will lend you a horse." He laughed then, a laughter that came from the heart and wasn't half as much ridicule as comradely. 

"He has probably never had the chance to tease a nobleman before," Jehan remarked as they left. 

Jacopo's mouth twitched. "Apparently not," he said. 

The gates of the city were open now and a steady line of people were entering and leaving with carts, animals, and children. Again, no one sent a second glance at the trio as they made their way through the streets. It was as if they were strangers just passing through. 

The towers of the castle towered over the houses like a huge beast. Upon seeing the entrance, Jacopo felt a little dread. He stopped in his tracks and got a scolding from a man with a load of vegetables heading the same way. They helped pick up the kales that Jacopo had knocked out from him, yet the young prince made no move towards the door afterwards.

"What is the matter?" asked Jehan. He looked worried. 

"It has been nice- this journey. I- I am not sure I want it to end. I am afraid that once I go behind those doors I am not going out again. Not like we have been."

Jehan placed a strong arm around him. His grip was comforting. Jacopo wanted to cry when he realised he wouldn't be seeing him every day after this. 

"Nonsense. I will help you slip out. Your Majesty."

For a moment Jacopo wanted to tell him how he really felt, then the moment passed and he felt his cowardly nature creep back. He ignored his beating heart and went in, trying to shake off his sadness as he let his fingers glide over the familiar walls. For the first time he noted how massive the castle was. Walking under an arched hallway he felt the stone overhead in a way he had never before. There had been few monuments like that along the route they had taken. He had forgotten how impressive it was. A little suffocating even. He glanced back and saw his friends following close behind. _I don't want to be alone_ , he thought to himself. 

Just then they reached the courtyard, where his mother had fashioned a small garden. And there she was. 

Violante didn't notice them at first. She was standing still, examining something in her hand with a reading stone- a beryl- in front of one of her eyes, keeping the other one closed. She seemed older than Jacopo remembered. Fine lines had appeared in her face. It suited her. Violante could make anything suit her out of pride.

Roxane stood beside her, seemingly explaining her something. They both raised their heads when Jehan waved at them. A softness crept into Violante's expression when she realised it was her son coming to greet her. He was happy to see it, even if she did try to surpress it. She gave him a hug like Roxane did Jehan beside them, and squinted at him. He flushed, not used to the closeness between them. 

"You have outgrown me. By far," she said. She studied his face, clearly searching for something and finding it. "You look like him."

Jacopo pulled himself out of her embrace. "I look like me," he corrected her. His mother did not object. She simply looked at him, a long discerning stare after which she dismissed Roxane. Jacopo watched as both Giorgia and Jehan left with her, although they both waved goodbye to him. He stared after them even after the hallway out was empty. 

"You came a little later than I had anticipated."

"Well, there happened a lot, so I can't really be blamed for that."

They looked at each other. Jacopo was the first to look away. 

"Evidently. You look nothing like the boy that went out." Her voice was a little accusing, if in a way a mother would accuse her son for daring to grow up without her.

Jacopo, however, thought he was being reprimanded and acted accordingly. "I have travelled through seven kingdoms and you are going to shame me for coming home late? Maybe I should have stayed a vagabond."

Violante snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You belong here."

When he didn't reply she frowned. "Have you been on the road for so long you have forgotten?"

Jacopo bit his lip till it hurt to stop the tears forming in his eyes, yet it was all for nothing, and he started weeping. He told her how afraid he was. He feared he would be a bad ruler. He feared being alone and unloved. He feared he had more of his father in him than he would like to admit. 

Violante _almost_ embraced him. In the end she stroked him lightly over his hair. "You are nothing like Cosimo. You needn't fear that. You were right."

What she didn't tell him- because she was too proud to- was that she had never seen Cosimo weep. Cosimo had been fair. Cosimo had been loved by all. And he had died, taking thousands with him into an early grave. With blind self confidence came destruction. The Adderhead had died from that fault too. Seeing Jacopo admit to fear was comforting. 

"You will be a good monarch. Don't worry," she said, and when he didn't stop crying she slowly came closer and gave him a second hug. He was almost two heads taller than her now and still growing. She remembered his grandfather's war on death distinctly. It seemed just yesterday that her son had delivered the book over to the Bluejay. Through the Adderhead's death peace had been restored. Surely the people must remember that? Surely.


End file.
